Chapter Seven Nothing Left to Burn #2
Did he want someone to share it with?
Yeah. Of course he did.
But not anyone . Not some stranger off a location pin, faceless and forgettable before the door even shut behind them. And he sure as hell wasn’t heading back to the gym to relive what had started there, like some ghost haunting his own mistakes.
For once, he didn’t want release.
He didn’t want to feel nothing.
He wanted to feel… something .
A pair of arms around him. His arms around them. Safety .
A goddamn kiss .
So he went home. To bed. Alone.
* * * *
Trent stayed at the gym longer than was even remotely reasonable. Long enough the night manager gave him that look, the one that said either go home or I’ll have to pay you wages .
Dev had called. He’d ignored it.
He’d ignored the texts, too.
Dozens of them, lighting up the group chat from Niko, Rory, and Dev. His phone buzzed constantly in his pocket as if sheer persistence could drag him out of whatever pit he’d fallen into.
And when he didn’t reply… well, the chat took on a life of its own.
Dev : Before I get my beauty sleep, has anyone checked if Trent’s still alive or if he’s officially become part of the gym décor?
Rory : Pretty sure he’s fused to the treadmill at this point. Someone bring a crowbar.
Niko : If he starts paying rent there, tell him to negotiate a better view.
Dev : Tried calling. Went straight to voicemail. Dramatic bitch .
Rory : I’m telling you, he’s not ignoring us. He’s ascended. Pure protein powder now. Walks among us as a sentient gym towel.
Niko : If he sends a post-workout selfie with “rise and grind”, I’m blocking him.
Dev : (crying face emoji ) Same .
Rory : Should we send a rescue mission? Or leave him to his tragic main character moment?
Niko : Give it a few hours. If he doesn’t surface, I’ll swing by. Bring carbs and emotional bribery.
Dev : Make it cinnamon whirls. The slut can’t resist those .
Rory : You sure we’re talking about buns or are we back to Reece again?
Niko : (Neutral face emoji)
Dev : Both. Always both (aubergine and strawberry emoji)
And through all of it, Trent sat in the changing rooms, staring at the screen, hovering his thumb over the text bubble but never quite hitting reply. Even that felt like more than he could manage.
Then the door to the changing room banged open, and Trent flinched, momentarily forgetting he wasn’t alone in the world, let alone in a public space. Freddie Webb walked in, bag slung over his shoulder, head down as he tugged out an earbud, gaze landing straight on Trent .
Trent sagged against the lockers with a quiet sigh. Of all the people to stumble across him mid-existential crisis, it had to be someone Reece had history with.
“Hey.” Freddie dropped his bag on the bench opposite and peeled off his high-vis vest. “Late one?”
“Uh… yeah.” Trent dug aimlessly through his bag to find something vaguely clean to throw on for the walk home. He found a hoodie, then checked his phone. Christ, it was late. “You finishing or starting?” he asked, glancing up as Freddie tugged off his T-shirt.
Trent did his best not to look, but, well, Freddie was objectively good-looking.
Every other bloke in Worthbridge seemed cut from the same annoyingly attractive mould.
Freddie’s boyfriend wasn’t half bad either.
More Reece’s rugged, rough-around-the-edges type than Freddie’s clean-cut charm, and Trent wondered, not for the first time, if the two of them had ever considered setting up an OnlyFans.
Fixing cars and catching criminals by day, breaking the internet by night.
“Finished.” Freddie pulled on a work-out top and smoothed his hair back. “You?”
“Day off.” Trent shrugged into his hoodie.
Freddie glanced at him sideways. “Can’t sleep? Body clock shot after nights again?”
“Something like that.” It wasn’t even close to the truth, but it was easier than admitting he’d come here hoping to find Reece and had run himself into the ground waiting.
Freddie settled onto the bench opposite, elbows braced on his knees, that copper’s stare cutting through Trent like a scalpel.
“You wanna offload, or are we sticking with emotional suppression via cardio? ”
Trent shook his head, offering the faintest smile. “Nah. Working through it the only way I know. Shite playlists and running myself into the floor.”
“Well, could be worse. At least it’s not six pints and a punch-up outside The Lighthouse.”
Trent glanced down, catching sight of the blister pack of pills poking from the edge of his bag. His stomach turned. Quietly, he shoved them back in and zipped the pocket shut.
“You’re lucky you had today off.” Freddie stood, rolling out his shoulders with a soft groan. “Rough one out there.”
“Yeah? You were on scene?”
“The warehouse job. You hear about it?”
“Bit. Called in to see if you needed extra bodies, but they said it was all in hand.”
“Yeah… no civvy casualties, thank Christ. But we nearly had one from our side.”
“Oh?” Trent did his best not to look too interested. “One of ours got hurt?”
“Bit of hero work.” Freddie rotated his hips, warming up his body for the punishing session that would no doubt clear his mind. “Mezzanine went. Some daft firefighter thought he’d do a Superman impression. Nearly got pancaked for his trouble.”
Trent’s stomach sank through the floor. “Shit. Is he…?”
“Fine,” Freddie cut in, as if he could see the panic working its way through Trent’s system. “Pulled out in time. Your lot patched him up on scene. He’s benched for a bit, but nothing life changing. Physically, anyway.”
Trent forced himself to breathe, but his mind was already sprinting ahead, stacking worst-case scenarios on top of each other.
Was it Reece ?
Is that why he wasn’t here now, doing what Freddie was, sweating the job off, shaking off the adrenaline the way Reece always did?
Freddie paused mid-stretch, his eyes settling on him with that sharp, unflinching look only a copper could really pull off. Then, quietly, almost inaudible, he said, “It wasn’t Reece.”
Trent snapped to, eyes wide, air thick in his lungs. Freddie held his gaze, and in that moment, Trent knew there was no talking his way out of this.
Freddie knew .
Of course, he bloody knew.
Because he’d been exactly where Trent was sitting now.
Probably sat right here on this same bench, once upon a time, waiting like some lovesick idiot, convincing himself that Reece Morgan gave a shit.
That there was more behind the rough hands and the ragged breaths and the word sweetheart whispered like a secret just for him.
He’d probably felt as small. As safe. As fucking wrecked by Reece’s touch, then walked away as if none of it mattered.
But Freddie had come to his senses.
Trent wasn’t sure how the hell he was supposed to do the same.
So he nodded. Then, with a shaky breath, he stood and turned his back, pretending to root through his bag, hoping it might have something useful tucked away.
Behind him, Freddie’s voice cut through the silence. Soft but certain. “You got his number?”
Trent snorted. “Why would I need his number?”
“Because for all that swagger, all that big man routine, he’s not made of stone. Tough lads break too. And when they do…” Freddie got into his line of sight. “Sometimes it’s a medic they need most. ”
Trent turned back around and as he held Freddie’s gaze, the question sat lodged in his throat before it finally spilled out. “And what if he’s already got someone else patching him up?”
Freddie shrugged. “Then you’ll know you tried. And that’s better than sitting here wondering if he’s out there needing someone… and no one shows.”
He popped his earbuds back in, but paused as he turned away, casting one last look over his shoulder.
“But if you want my opinion, coming from someone who’s been there and knows him better than most, he won’t have anyone with him.”
Trent frowned. “What makes you so sure?”
Freddie smiled faintly, that familiar glint of dry humour softening into something almost sincere. “Because he’s holding out for a hero.”
Then he turned and wandered off towards the gym floor.
Trent screwed his eyes shut. Sighed heavily. Then grabbed his bag and exited the gym. The air hit him the moment he stepped outside. Cold and bitter, cutting straight through the lingering heat of the gym.
The bus service had switched to the night schedule.
One an hour if he was lucky. And a glance at the electronic display above told him he’d missed one by five agonising minutes.
So he bounced on the balls of his feet, rubbing his hands together to stave off the cold, before finally pulling out his phone.
Call him.
One call. That’s all.
Before his head could talk him out of it, he hit the button and pressed the phone to his ear, pacing tight circles beneath the weak glow of the shelter.
It didn’t even ring .
Straight to voicemail.
Reece’s voice came through, low, familiar, far too casual for how much it hurt to hear it. “It’s Reece. You know what to do.”
The beep echoed through the empty night.
Trent stood frozen, heart thudding painfully, his breath misting in the cold air.
Because no. He didn’t know what to do. Not when it came to this .
Him .
He hovered his thumb over the screen, then he hung up before the line disconnected.
Text him.
Something simple. Quick. “You okay?” or “Thinking of you.” Anything.
But his fingers refused to move.
After a long, agonising moment, he locked the screen, shoved the phone deep into his pocket, and turned towards home.
He didn’t look back.
And if his chest felt like it was caving in or his eyes stung the entire walk home…
Fuck it.
No one ever had to know that part.